Ice and Fire
by the ticking clock
Summary: It's 3:18am, and he doesn't care who he is. Spoilers for 1x12.


**I have no idea what this is. I am still so emotionally compromised from the episode. Let me know what you think? **

He doesn't care who he is.

He is so many people, trapped in one body. Killers and fathers and daughters scream and burn and tear at his insides. He got too close. He's too close and now he can't escape them.

Sometimes he can control it, he can find himself again, buried deep in layers of blood and antlers and screaming girls. Sometimes he can find the teacher, the man who takes in strays. Sometimes he can find Will Graham.

Standing in the airport, with his head clear of the cabin(It HAD to be a dream or a hallucination, they weren't really there...right?) he's not quite sure who he is. He's concerned for Abigail, worried about her, but both Will Graham and Garret Jacob Hobbs would feel those things.

So who is he?

He doesn't know.

So he walks. He walks until his vision blurs and all he can see is a stag on fire, broken bodies and blood, and all he can feel is _powerful. _

_ It's the ugliest thing in the world..._

His fingers curl and twitch around a gun that isn't there, and he fires several shots into the distance. The kick of the weapon in his hand and the burn of gunpowder in his nose is so _real. _

The headache returns with vengeance, and now it's not only the stag that's on fire, but him as well. He screams and falls, and burns in the ice-cold snow.

"Will."

Cold hands comb through his hair, sudden and familiar. "Will. Can you hear me? Will."

No, No, No, that's not who he is. He doesn't know who he, but he can't be Will. Will is scared and nervous and _weak. _He is _powerful. _

"No," He whispers. His lips crack. Hot blood seeps into his mouth, warm like the fire in his head, the gun in his hand. "No...that's not..that's not me."

Fingers curl around his wrists, pull him to his feet. "Come with me, Will."

Strength flows back to his body and he finds motion. Shoving with his hands, he pushes away, staggers backwards. "NO, no, no, no..."

"Will. Will..." The face is a haze. He can't see clearly. His own face is wet with tears and blood, but he doesn't understand why he's crying. He shouldn't cry.

"Will, you must come with me now."

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" the scream rips from him, tears in his throat so his voice breaks. He staggers-

Arms come around him, holding him up, and somehow he doesn't care. He doesn't try to push away because he can't move.

"You need to listen to me," The voice is no longer soft or soothing. It's gone hard, a dangerous edge. He can appreciate this. "They will arrest you. They think you killed those girls."

Garret Jacob Hobb's voice laughs from his throat. "I did."

"No. You didn't, Will. You don't remember."

Why won't he understand? "That's not my name. Call me by my _name." _

"Shhh," in anyone else's voice the sound would be soothing, but it is a command. "We have to hurry. I'm trying to help you. Trust me."

Because he understands the power(this man is like him) behind the voice, he obeys.

* * *

He wakes in a room.

It's a white room. Bright lights shine in his eyes. He blinks.

One. Two. Three. Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Repeat after me. It is 3:17am. You are in Detroit Michigan, and your name is Will Graham."

His tongue is heavy and swollen in his mouth, but the words come. "It is 3:17am. I am in Detroit, Michigan, and my name is Will Graham."

But his head isn't clear. He's not Will Graham. He's not thinking about dogs or Alana, or _anything. _

He's thinking about blood.

He's thinking about screams.

He's thinking about Abigail.

Abigail?

"Abigail?"

Hannibal's mouth twitches slightly. A smile? "Safe."

The clock on the wall ticks. It sways and burns to his eyes. He likes that. "It's 3:18am," he whispers, and laughs in Garret Jacob Hobb's voice, "and I don't care who I am."

"You are Will Graham." Hannibal is saying somewhere to his left. "Do you hear me? Will. Look at me. Do you know who you are?"

The doctor's face is blurry. He's hot and cold, and he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. He's so many people, so many _pieces _of people. He doesn't know if he can ever find his real self, buried so deep in the minds of killers.

"I don't care."

"It's 3:20am," A cold hand presses to his wrist, monitoring his pulse. "You are in Detroit Michigan, and your name is Will Graham. _Your name is Will Graham._"

He laughs.

Hannibal calls Jack Crawford. He says something about murder and Will and antlers and Abigail, but the words blend together until they mean nothing.

"It's 3:20am," he laughs. Fingers curl in, around a gun that his eyes tell him isn't there, but his mind assures him that it's real, it _is, _"and I don't care who I am."

He pulls the trigger. Because he wants to feel powerful.

Hannibal sits with him while he laughs, and then a few hours later while he cries.

He's not Will Graham, no matter how many times they whisper the pointless exercise.

He's not sure if he will ever be Will Graham again.


End file.
